


Bite

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Collars, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11349693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Faramir doesn’t know what he wants, only that Aragorn is too good a master for him.





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was gunna be porny but then somehow I took a left turn and it just... 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Aragorn runs his fingers along the leather surface and voices, “I do not understand.”

Faramir’s breath is already quick and shallow. It wasn’t an easy thing to say the first time, and he dreads a second, even though there’s no judgment in Aragorn’s deep eyes. There never is. Aragorn is sweet to him, kind above all things, even though Faramir’s done nothing to deserve and never faced such open acceptance in his life. Even with Boromir, the only one who used to _protect_ him the way Aragorn now does, there was some need to seem _brave._

With Aragorn, Faramir can admit how vulnerable he really feels. And he manages to murmur again, “I want you to treat me... ah... as you would a dog.”

Aragorn lifts a brow. It isn’t harsh, merely curious. Alone in Aragorn’s private chambers, the bedroom of a _king_ , the two of them sit upon the bed, dressed only in loose trousers and tunics for sleep. Aragorn had kissed him, and he’d slipped his newest purchase into Aragorn’s strong hands. He’d hoped that Aragorn would simply _know_ , but it seems that the Elven lands where Aragorn grew didn’t have the bawdy games that Gondor’s soldiers brag about in taverns. Of course, they always brag of _owning_ the dog, not _being_ one. But in the last few months, Aragorn’s given Faramir more power than he’s ever wanted, and it still feels so strange for him to hold. 

He still knows what he is, how much he’s worth. And he needs Aragorn to see that, the way Faramir’s father always did. It’s for the good of Gondor, for the good of his beloved king. He has no right to be Aragorn’s _partner_ , and perhaps if Aragorn sees how far he’ll willingly submit, that spot will finally go to someone who _deserves_ to stand at Aragorn’s side. 

Aragorn lifts one hand from the collar to cup Faramir’s chin, thumb lightly brushing through the stubble. He forces Faramir to meet his eyes and asks, stern but open, “This is what you want?”

Faramir nods, breathless, as Aragorn’s touch always make him. Then, for effect, he tilts his head to burrow into Aragorn’s hand, and he licks flat across Aragorn’s palm. It’s been a day since Aragorn’s last bath, but the salty taste of his skin makes Faramir have to suppress a shiver. At least submitting to Aragorn in the process of his debauchery will be no chore. He would live on his knees for Aragorn gladly. He just needs Aragorn to know it. 

Aragorn decides, “Very well.” And he unfastens the front of the collar with a simple flick of his thumb, a movement that makes Faramir’s chest seize with excitement. He’s fantasized of this more often than he’d care to admit—further proof of his rightful place. Before Aragorn, he pictured faceless soldiers, men as strong and valiant as Boromir. After first laying eyes on Aragorn, he’s been able to fantasize of no one else.

He leans forward and tilts back his head, exposing his throat, and waits for Aragorn’s mark to clamp around him. Instead, Aragorn purrs, “I suppose a dog would wear no clothes.”

Faramir opens his mouth to agree, then remembers his role and quickly closes it—dogs know no speech. He nods instead and quickly rips his tunic over his head, tossing it aside. He has to climb off the bed to do the same with his trousers, and then he kneels down where he stands, falling to the cold stone floor. It’s a pleasant shock to the system, a jolt of new anticipation, though Aragorn frowns at him. Faramir mirrors it; he always hates to disappoint his king.

But Aragorn muses, “And I suppose the mutts in Gondor are not invited onto furniture, either.” Faramir shakes his head, thinking himself exactly that—a mutt not fit to serve even at the king’s feet. Yet he knows he’ll be blessed with the honour of Aragorn’s collar, and he holds his neck at the ready again. 

Aragorn crawls to the edge of the bed at a slow, leisurely pace, and his eyes roam over Faramir’s form as he goes, though Faramir has bared himself many times to Aragorn. He never thought he offered that much appeal, but of course he’ll reveal it whenever Aragorn asks; his body, all he has, and all he is, are all at Aragorn’s disposal. When Aragorn’s legs fall over the side of the bed, bracketing Faramir in, Faramir leans against the closest one, wantonly soaking in the warmth. He can’t help himself. And a dog would have no reservations about humping Aragorn’s leg, something he both fears and longs to do—fears because he hardly deserves even that, and longs to because Aragorn should know of these sick desires. In the end, he drapes over it but doesn’t move his hips any further, though his cock is already stirring between his legs. It always does when Aragorn is near him. 

Aragorn reaches down and opens the collar along Faramir’s throat, sliding the ends back beneath his hair. Faramir’s breath hitches and holds. He can’t help eyeing Aragorn’s handsome face as Aragorn fastens the clasp around the back. Faramir only wishes he’d had the courage to fix an engraved pendant to the front, perhaps baring his name and _property of King Aragorn._

As Aragorn’s hands withdraw, his fingers linger along Faramir’s jaw, sliding slowly away, their gaze now locked together. There’s a flicker of familiar flame in Aragorn’s eyes— _arousal_ , something that always makes Faramir respond tenfold. He’s constantly amazed that he can arouse his king. When Aragorn’s sitting straight again, his eyes travel down Faramir’s front, and he murmurs, “I suppose I can see a certain... appeal... to this game.”

Smiling, Faramir nuzzles into Aragorn’s leg. Aragorn slips his nearest hand back into Faramir’s hair, and he spends a few moments petting Faramir like the dog he claims to be. It’s a more than pleasant sensation, something Faramir both cherishes and feels guilty for—he wants to be made to please _Aragorn_ , not the other way around. But Aragorn drops another hand to graze his cheek, lavishing him in attention, like Aragorn always does. 

For a fair time, it goes on like that, Faramir lost in the ministrations and leaning closer into each one, trying to nuzzle into the hands that grace him, his body cocooned around Aragorn’s leg and his hips trying to keep his hardening cock from brushing Aragorn’s ankle. Then Aragorn mutters suddenly, “You are no mutt off the street, my Faramir, though I would love you still if you were. Rather, you are a prized champion, and I know you are well behaved enough to lie upon my bed.”

While Faramir tries to control the war of emotions across his face, Aragorn reaches to dip a single finger into Faramir’s collar. There’s enough give to tug him forward by it, and he rises obediently, following as Aragorn settles back. Faramir climbs onto the bed, still on all fours, and allows Aragorn to guide him down—he splays Across Aragorn’s lap, his head cushioned on Aragorn’s crotch, and though he turns to mouth at the hard bulge there, Aragorn lightly tugs him back by the hair. He’s forced to settle, to merely lie where he’s put. Then Aragorn resumes petting him, behind his ears and down his neck, along his arm and to his chest, even to his stomach. Aragorn rubs all over him, igniting his bare skin wherever they touch. Every time Aragorn strokes him, Faramir becomes a little dizzier. Lust and affection battle inside him, while his body luxuriates in Aragorn’s generosity. He should’ve known that Aragorn would’ve been too kind a master.

Aragorn whispers, “You are a masterpiece fit for any show, my love. I would put you on a pedestal, if I could stand to share you. Or I would lead you out into my council chambers on my leash, let all the others snarl in envy, and pet you while you rested in my lap. You work too hard, I think, and perhaps this is your reprieve. You will receive no burdens from me tonight. Only my ardour. You are mine, you are beautiful, and I will love you through whatever game you might choose.” 

Faramir doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He’d hoped to be thrown out as much as he’d hoped to be mounted and fucked like an animal. And now all he hopes for is that Aragorn’s hands never stop. Aragorn makes him want to cry, but joyous tears. He buries his face in Aragorn’s thigh to hide them, and he feels Aragorn bend to kiss his cheek. 

Aragorn coos into his ear, “ _Good boy._ ” And maybe that could’ve been the filthy debasement Faramir wanted, if Aragorn didn’t say it with such _love_.

He should’ve known better than to expect anything less from his king. He feels foolish and tired, and so desperately enamoured that his heart hurts. Aragorn ruffles his hair and murmurs, “Perhaps we should sleep tonight, and I will think more on this for another night. But you will sleep in my bed now, for that is always your place, so long as you will honour me with it.”

Faramir nods weakly to signal that he’s heard. He’s grateful he has an excuse not to speak. He doesn’t think he’d be able to find the right words. Aragorn shifts beneath him, and Faramir lifts his head to allow it. Aragorn stretches out beside him, pulling the blankets up into place. 

Aragorn moves close against Faramir and wraps tender arms around him. Faramir snuggles into Aragorn’s warm body and allows himself that peace.

**Author's Note:**

> My dear friend Epoxide wrote an excellent sequel [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11352099)


End file.
